I hate it.
I hate that I couldn’t sleep last night, and spent four hours beating the heavy bag in my home gym. And it didn’t do a fucking thing to release a single ounce of tension.
The water pounds against my shoulders. I close my eyes.
And as soon as I do, all I hear is that soft dare from her soft lips:do your fucking worst.
Fuck!
She’s gotten under my skin and I fucking hate it. I hate that I spent the entire night replaying the taste of her mouth against mine on the balcony, and obsessing over that tiny moment when her tongue darted out to feather my lips.
I hate that every time I touch her skin, I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t stop feeling like I’m burning up from head to toe.
And she’s just down the hallway. In her blouse buttoned all the way up like a nun. In her pencil skirt that unintentionally accentuates her ass. In her flats that make her look simultaneously ordinary and unattainable.
A shudder moves through my body, and my eyes flutter open to find my hand is wrapped around my dick and pumping furiously.
I don’t even remember moving it there, let alone starting to stroke. But here I am, braced against the shower wall, fisting myself to thoughts of Bella like some pathetic fucking teenager who can’t control his own body.
Enough!
I release but it’s already too late. Cum spurts forth and splashes the walls as I pant under the cold water. I force myself to stareat nothing until my breathing starts to even out. The tension dissolves a little, but it’s not enough.
Not by a fucking long shot.
She’s got me jerking off to the fucking thought of her like she’s already won.
She hasn’t won shit.
I shut off the water and step out, grabbing a towel with more aggression than the situation requires. My jaw is clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
Get it together.
I redirect and yank my thoughts away from Bella and towards something more productive. Namely, the three D’Ambrosio Made Men that I killed last night.
Don Leo called me this morning and left a message demanding that we talk before shit spirals out of control. I ignored it. Did that old fat bastard seriously think that his son’s men can touch what belongs to me without provoking a response?
But she’s not mine, at least not in the way that matters.
I drag on a pair of black slacks, tugging on them a little harder than I want because I’m so fucking pissed off. I don’t bother with putting on a tie.
My phone buzzes again. Fucking Don Leo again. At least this time he’s wised up about calling.
My 70th birthday party. Next Saturday. We’ll talk then.
Fuck him.
Anger rushes through my body, and I welcome it like an old friend. As long as I’m pissed off and angry at Don Leo and the rest of the D’Ambrosio Family, it means I’m not thinking about Bella.
And as long as I’m not thinking about her, my dick can stay somewhat under control.
It’ll have to do for now.
Ludmilla is in the kitchen,arranging a vase of flowers, when I walk in. I move past her to grab a glass of water, but her voice stops me mid-reach.
“That girl has the necklace.”
“I know.”
